He had loved Catalina first, Henry thought as he laid on his deathbed.
He'd seen her first as his brother's bride and fallen in love with her though he'd been but a boy of ten. It was a youngster's love of passion and foolishness but it had lasted long.
Young boy that he'd been, Henry had fallen in love with her hair that shone a bronze gold, tumbling down to her waist like coils of liquid gold. He'd loved her eyes to, like sapphires sparkling in the sunlight. She'd been so mysterious and strange, hidden behind the thick veil and her Spanish words that entranced him. He'd loved her mind, how she was so sharp and never missed anything but obedient and kind as always. And their daughter Mary was his darling, his pearl, his child. His first queen had been his childhood sweetheart and the first to ever catch his heart. Yes, he will always love Catalina like a boy loved a girl.
And then there was Anne who had been a fire of passion.
She'd been dark, provocative and desirable. Her French lilt intoxicated him, her touch leaving him burning and her lips so kissable and sweet. He had loved Anne, he truly did for all his faults. She was brazen and a whirlwind of steel, so beautiful and so indignant. Their daughter too had been perfect. Little Elizabeth was smart and a quick learner – everything he could have hoped for in a future king of England. Indeed, Henry loved Anne too, as a man loved a woman.
There was his third wife also, the English darling, Jane Seymour.
She was sweet and obedient and had given him something that no other wife had given him – a son and a proper heir. Jane, oh darling Jane. He had not loved a wife like any other. Their son Edward was so dear to his heart and his beautiful son that would become a great king for sure. She was so innocent and his angel of virtue, her pale blonde hair tumbling down her shoulders and soft blue eyes lovingly watching him. Aye, Henry loved Jane in like manner to a king loving his queen
Ah, and who could forget Anne of Cleves?
He'd been an old man then and hurt easily by her rejection. But she'd turned to be a kind and loving sister to him. She was his sister, his wild falcon that did not yield to anything. He remembered when she'd first come to England, so foreign and bundled up in her strange German clothes, not a word of English to be spoken. But that was fine because it was the exoticness he loved. Of course, Henry loved Anne similar to a brother loving his sister.
Next was sweet-faced Katherine Howard – who could forget her?/span/p
She was his rose without thorns, his darling, his passion. Little Kitty Howard had found him when he was an old man but she had charmed him so and, truly, Henry did love her, in a way. She was young and lively and beautiful – all that he desired, all that he was not. She'd come to his court like a curious girl, dancing and flirting, so flushed with desire, so delighted by the trinkets he'd given her. He had been heartbroken by her betrayal – truly, he had! Certainly, Henry had loved Kitty resembling the love of a no-longer-youthful man to a pleasing girl.
Last but surely not least was Kateryn Parr.
She was his scholar queen, so smart and so loving. Despite his age and befuddlement, she never strayed from him and left her lover for him, only taking him again after his death. She was the one he consulted in and the one he trusted to be regent while Edward was young. She'd cared for him and loved him, so clever and knowing. It is true that Henry loved Kateryn akin to how a scholar loved a fellow scholar.
Henry VIII had lived a long life and he loved many women, his wives and his mistresses. There was Bonnie who had given him his first son and kind Mary Carey who had given him a daughter and a son. He was a lustful man with a great appetite but, at his very core, stripped to his true nature, he was a poet with a tender heart, a musician who sang away his soul, a king who wanted the best for his reign and kingdom.
He had killed and he had done all he could. He became a bitter man, always suspicious, finding plots where there were none. He mourned his wives. Yes, the one he had accused as his sister, the one he had cried witch, the one he had called angel, the one he had claimed ugly, the one he'd wished was his to love, the scholar who he'd trusted. He mourned them and he loved them, in his own strange way.
And so, with these last thoughts, last confessions, Henry Tudor slipped into death.